A Study in Scarlet
by Kyilliki
Summary: A collection of moments between Jane and Aro, defined by counting kisses. Written for SulpiciaDoesn'tApprove's Volturi Fanfic Contest.


**This was written for the "Volturi Fanfic**** Contest" with the prompt word "Red".**

**Author:** Kyilliki

**Title: **A Study in Scarlet

**Characters: **Jane/Aro

**Genre: **Romance

**Rating: **T

**Short Summary: **A collection of moments between Aro and Jane, defined by counting kisses.

**Warnings****: **Nothing graphic, some implied intimacy

**Author's Note:** The title of the fic is borrowed from Arthur Conan Doyle's work by the same name. I am in no way comparing myself to this brilliant author; the only similarity is that both stories have a thread of scarlet running through them.

This is written from Aro's perspective, using second-person narration.

* * *

She stands in front of you, a grotesque study in red and pale, her hair matted into spikes, crescents of coppery-crimson beneath her nails. Suddenly, temporarily, you wonder when it was that you had fallen so far, allowing a girl to fight battles in your stead. The sentiment crumbles away like burning paper; curiosity is so much sweeter than remorse.

"Jane, dear," you say (_sing-song like a music-box)_, extending a thin hand. You can see the details of the fight through Caius' eyes, or Felix's, or Alec's but there is something about her broken-doll perspective that interests you.

Besides, you owe her.

She glides forward (_a lethal butterfly, a deadly dancer)_ and slips a little hand into yours. You expect violence, speed, death, ashes.

Instead, the images in your head are silent and gritty, like the beginnings of cinema. Limbs and lips twining, a staccato of touches, eyes closed, no words. This is a strange fantasy (_and you're something of an expert in that field)_, but only because you're in it.

She looks at you, head tilted like an inquisitive bird, and then your arms are around her shoulders, and her willow-twig legs are caught around your waist. She smells of blood and fear, tastes like fire and forgotten childhood, but that's not where your mind is. Through her robes, you imagine you can feel a heartbeat, quick and nervous as a hummingbird's flight.

That is the first kiss.

* * *

"I can't have a lover." Immediately, you are ashamed of how brutal the words sound, how inconvenient, with slender Jane tangled in your embrace, her mind jumbled yet serene.

She raises her head, her hair still thorny from drying blood. You can hear her thoughts accelerate and spiral away (_names and faces of everyone who would not understand)_, considering the possibilities, so you continue rapidly, unsure of what you want to accomplish.

"There is too much at stake, too much that can be lost." To emphasize your point, you gesture around the room, a still, burgundy mausoleum of wine-rich tapestries and dark furniture, so unlike the granite austerity of the castle itself, where the power (_perhaps decadence)_ of the Volturi is celebrated.

She sits up now, feather-light fingers pressing into your chest.

"We're not lovers," she says firmly, her voice like breaking crystal. "We're just...people. This feels honest, somehow," It is the wrong word, but you understand the sentiment; in a world ruled by steely reason, acting on genuine emotion is a sort of truthfulness.

You let her convince you, and a gentle second kiss seals the pact.

* * *

Do you love her? That's a stupid question, and you refuse to answer it.

Do you want her? The response is obvious.

_Why?_ You know better than that. Subjects that can drive you mad will not be addressed at all.

Because you can neither go forwards nor backwards, you merely exist in a flat present tense, pulling little Jane along with you.

You seek her out when you can no longer bear Caius' rage or Marcus' agony, when the weight of the world on your shoulders begins to chafe. You lead her away from the bloody sandstone of the training rooms or the erudite silence of the library. Then you crush your mouth against hers, desperate and hungry, until all you can see behind your closed eyes is the crimson of simple passion.

This happens more than you can count, but it bleeds and blurs together in your mind, like a watercolour of wanting and release. Collectively, the recollections are your third kiss.

* * *

The raw selfishness of desire passes, leaving only the sweetness of love and secrecy. Your curiosity is kindled by the witch-girl (_you cannot think of a suitable endearment; she defies description_). You want to play with her memories, picking each one up and admiring its facets before setting it down again, but you treasure her enough to ask permission.

It turns into a lovers' game (_though that is not what you want to call it)_, a shy, childlike exchange of moments that make up an eternity.

"What is your favourite memory?" you ask her, deft hands tracing circles on her spine.

She shows you a Tuscan summer, far too long ago. A boy and a girl, no older than eight, pick strawberries, their fragile faces and hands smeared with red. There is laughter and blinding, dizzying sunlight, though Alec seems blurry, as though she does not want to remember how much he loves her, how much she is keeping from him.

You do not say anything about it, because there are people whose faces you too want to smudge away so they cannot look at you with accusation in their eyes.

Instead, you tell her about the beginning, when you had a beautiful little sister, when Caius knew how to laugh and Marcus smiled.

Somewhere in the middle of the recollection, you stop, vaguely puzzled, and press her lips against yours, seeing confusion ruffle the calm of her thoughts like an oncoming storm.

Your fourth kiss is nothing but gratitude, on her part and yours. The pair of you have the unique capacity of reminding each what it is like to be _happy._

* * *

"This cannot end well," you tell Jane, amazed that you are the one who worries. She, after all, has everything to lose if (_when)_ your dalliance is revealed.

"It doesn't have to end at all," she replies peacefully, using her strange, adolescent logic which is either incredibly foolish or profoundly wise; you cannot decide.

You begin listing the ways your relationship (_love affair)_ can go wrong, and she takes your hand between her bony palms and shows you the thousand ways it can go right. You are not convinced, but then nothing is ever a certainty.

The sun rises during this silent conversation, staining the sky pomegranate, bathing Jane in scarlet light. She's beautiful like this, you think, and tighten your arms around her. You huddle together, expressionless, like two broken pieces of something lovely (_but complete in their asymmetry)_.

The daylight comes soon, harsh and unforgiving, illuminating things that should remain in the shadows.

After that morning, you stop counting kisses. For one reason or another.


End file.
